


The Doll Baby

by stacy_l



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Dark, Child Neglect, Crossdressing, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Infantilism, M/M, Macabre, Neglect, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Objectification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4923847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stacy_l/pseuds/stacy_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you live with someone who is insane? You do whatever you can to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doll Baby

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING!!** This story contains themes many people may find either disturbing, offensive, unsettling or squick worthy. Please, please READ ALL WARNINGS before proceeding to click the link!! Thank you!
> 
> Major squicks for some people in this fic and possibly very disturbing and/or offensive to other people, so please read the warnings before proceeding! The story also contains a very dark and disturbed John Winchester.
> 
> Originally posted in December 2010.

**Sam's POV**

It was a toy, one strictly belonging to my father. He never let me play with it. He always said I had my own toys, so I didn’t need to play with his. I wasn’t to play with it or even touch it. When I had to speak _of_ it I had to either refer to it as daddy’s toy or it. Those were dad’s rules regarding his precious doll baby.

I’d sometimes watch as dad would play with his toy. He’d dress it up in these cutesy little outfits. Sometimes he’d put make up on it and add stylish wigs and costume jewelry, other times he’d just fuss with the clothing or paint its fingernails. He’d spend countless hours dressing his doll up and applying makeup to its face. It had to be _perfect_ , there could be no trace of smudging or smears. _Everything_ had to be just right or dad would become extremely angry. While he dressed his doll and painted its face the doll would sit so still, so perfectly still propped up against a wall or a chair or whatever dad chose to lean it against. The doll was so life-like that I’d often go to great lengths to avoid it, but sometimes I’d approach to get a closer look. I’d stare at it sometimes for hours expecting it to move or jump, but it never did just sat so very still. It was unnerving.

I soon lost my interest in the doll baby and would play with my own toys while dad played with his. I wanted to ask him about the doll, to demand why it never moved but I knew to do so would make my father very angry, so I avoided the subject. Instead I’d try to forget about the life-like doll that occupied my dad’s almost every free waking moment.

One day I paused and really _looked_ at the doll baby, studying it. It was all grown up. If it were real it would no doubt be considered an adult. What drew my main focus were the diapers the doll wore. They were thick and white, over top the diapers were these pink semi-clear plastic pants. The only other thing the doll baby wore was a brand new butterfly pacifier stuffed firmly in its mouth. Those items confused me for the doll baby looked too grown up to be dressed as such. Nervously chewing on my bottom lip I had decided to ask my father about it posing a simple question “Dad why’s your doll dressed in diapers?” Instead of answering the question he merely smiled brightly and asked, “You like them? They’re real pretty aren’t they?”

I didn’t know how to answer the question. I stared at him for a long time no doubt looking like a fish out of water my mouth moving but no words coming out. What could I say to _that_ , to a man who was apparently insane?

I hate to admit it but I knew, have always known that my father was inherently unstable. It was so obvious. I mean who else could say that their father played with a doll, liked to dress it up in pretty little gowns, paint its nails vivid colors, comb and style its hair, put make up on it and have tea parties late into the night? Yeah he was _completely_ insane, of course, I had learned early on that word was _never_ to be used in our household. The consequences were… Let’s just say I learned quickly to keep my true opinions of my father silent. It was called survival for a reason and that was the easiest way to survive by keeping my damned mouth shut. By letting him play for hours with his doll and act like it was a completely normal thing to do.

Even though dad’s toy was life-sized, he still insisted it was just like a Barbie doll with movable parts and could be dressed up in anything he wanted. He would often buy outfits for it anything from pink frilly dresses with big pink ribbons that he’d tie in the dolls hair to men’s clothes. He would play with his doll for hours fussing with it, making it all pretty. Once the doll was dressed and painted he’d start adding jewelry, bracelets and necklaces. His favorite outfit to dress his doll in was this pink ballerina dress. He loved putting that on the doll. Once the dress was on he’d put on these pink tights carefully pulling them up over the diapers he dressed his doll in then he’d add these dainty pink ballerina shoes to compliment the outfit. Once done he’d smile and carry his doll into the living room where he’d place it so carefully on a chair.

My breath hitched each time he moved his doll around because once he had it placed where he wanted the doll would do this sickly pitch to the right or to the left, sometimes even forward and it looked extremely uncomfortable, uncomfortable and _unnatural_. I’d want to run over and carefully re-position that doll, but I didn’t dare. If I touched his doll then he’d punish me for it so I’d watch. He’d situate the doll just so before heading off into the kitchen. He’d grab two cups, into one he’d either dump a powder or add a few drops of liquid. I asked him what it was on several occasions. He told me that it was simply flavoring. The doll’s eyes would move then creepily rolling from right to left or left to right. If the eyes stopped moving the doll was patted gently. If they kept moving dad would approach, carefully slip the pacifier out of the doll’s mouth and tilt its head back before pouring the liquid down its throat. I could never watch because it just disturbed me when that doll’s pale throat seemed to work as if it were swallowing. Dad would then pat the doll gently on the cheek and sit the cup down. The doll’s head would always roll forward as if on a spring. Sometimes the eyes would move again and sometimes they wouldn’t.

It was creepy and scary as hell. I would open my mouth to comment on it but quickly would snap it shut when he glared at me as if daring me to speak up. I used to start playing with my toys again, but quickly began choosing to leave the room unable to remain, unable to look at that doll, unable to again face the fact that my father was totally and completely insane.

I’d always return eventually, creeping into the living room, wanting to check on the doll baby to see if I had imagined those eyes moving as they had mere hours ago. Upon re-entering the room I’d slowly, quietly approach the couch settling down in my usual spot before turning to gaze at the life-size doll baby perched in the chair beside my father’s. Again the doll would be wearing the pacifier my father had purchased, one that was apparently specially made in Germany for what my dad had called “adult babies”, whatever the hell _that_ was. The doll rarely had an open mouth rather there usually was something shoved in it, or tied in it, secured in it. I never understood why. It always made me feel nervous and queasy. Dad rarely left the doll’s mouth empty rather it remained propped up wherever my dad chose to leave it with a pretty large butterfly shaped pacifier wedged firmly in its mouth.

When dad was ready for bed he’d tuck the doll into a bed or sit it in a chair. Sometimes he’d even place it in the coffin-sized toy box for safe keeping. It would disturb me and frighten me when he chose to put the doll in the toy box, for I feared the doll would be scared. When I told my father my fears he laughed at me calling me foolish for assuming a doll baby could feel such things as fear. He’d assure me the doll would be fine and rush me off to bed again. I never slept well on those nights always thought I could hear that doll screaming and clawing at the roof of the toy box in an effort to escape, to break free. I’d spend the entire night curled up tightly under my covers biting my nails, keeping my eyes squeezed tightly shut my breath coming in short little gasps as the clawing I was apparently imagining would only increase in volume. When I would crawl out of bed the next morning and enter the living room I’d laugh nervously at my silly fears from the previous night seeing the toy chest lid firmly closed and hearing not a single odd sound in the room. I liked to convince myself that I had imagined those sounds late at night, but I could never quite believe they weren’t _real_.

I often would go to town for dad. He told me he didn’t like to leave the house. He’d order me to go into town and purchase groceries, clothes, hell even stuff for his doll. His reasons for sending me and not going himself…? The townspeople made him feel uncomfortable, and he didn’t want the doll baby to feel lonely. Shaking my head I’d gather up his list, the keys to the car and accept the money he handed me before heading into town for my weekly visit. Truthfully, I was kind of relieved to get away even if it were only for a few hours, but for some unknown reason my mind never strayed far from that doll baby alone in the house with my crazy father.

When I’d return from town I’d almost always see my father in his usual place: sitting at the table, the doll propped up in a chair across from his, two coffee cups sitting on the table between them. I wanted to shout, to demand of my father just what in the hell he was doing instead I would smile and approach. The first thing I always noticed upon returning was that the doll would be dressed in fresh thick overnight diapers and would smell strongly of baby powder. Sometimes it was dressed in nothing else, other times it would be dressed in clothes with strange names like onesies and rompers. In the trash can I would always see balled up diapers that would smell suspiciously like they had been recently used, but I never dared to question why. Instead I’d quickly find something insignificant to toss in that trash can, something that could effectively cover them up completely and thus block them from my sight.

Soon I’d force my gaze back to that doll baby. It was usually sitting in its chair across from my father one hand seemingly wrapped around a cup while the other rested in its lap. In its mouth, as always, was shoved a pretty butterfly pacifier. I would quickly downcast my eyes my gaze drawn to those fingers, that open hand draped over its right leg. I would swallow hard inhaling sharply when I swore I could see the slightest tremors in those fingers, in that hand. When I looked back up at the doll’s face I could swear its eyes had moved again. I wanted to run from the room but stood transfixed tensing when dad would speak. I’d shuffle nervously always wanting to call dad a freak but instead I’d greet, _“Hey dad how are you”_ or _“what have you been up to?”_

The senseless questions always seemed to relax him for his eyes would once again settle on the doll baby staring at it as if assessing it. After several moments he would shift his gaze to me and cheerfully respond, “Tea party, Sammy, we’re having a tea party.”

I’d have to either swallow hard or dig my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from saying what was on my mind and instead would settle for softly questioning, “Does it like the party?”

Dad’s smile would widen and he’d nod enthusiastically before drawing the doll’s cup to him and filling it amply with liquid. Once the cup was filled he would then draw out another of those freaky packets of powder. He’d then carefully tear the package open and empty the contents into the cup. After that he’d carefully stir the drink before sitting the cup before the doll once again, his smile never once faltering.

Shaking my head I would always find a reason to quickly exit the room then I would pause just out of sight to watch. Soon dad would stand up and approach the doll baby. My hands would clench gripping the door frame tightly, reflexively. I’d watch as he would remove the pacifier, tilt that head back and dump the liquid down the doll’s throat. Then…the doll would begin to _swallow_. Next I’d hear what sounded like soft choked guttural sounds that made my stomach twist into knots before my father would carefully slip the pacifier back into the doll baby’s mouth and pat its face. As he removed his hand that head would loll sickly forward and the doll would again be looking down at the table top. Those fingers resting on that leg would then move. The one’s resting on the table would spasm looking as if that hand wanted to reach or grab onto something, _anything_. Dad would then pin it in place, push the doll’s head up with a finger pressed under its chin, smile sweetly and begin to address it as “pretty baby”. I left after that, ran from my hiding place to the bathroom and emptied the contents of my stomach trying to forget all that I’d seen…

It was some time before I found the courage to face that doll again so sad, so traumatized. After dad’s funeral I came home to find it secured in the corner, left in a heap upon the floor. I was very afraid. I didn’t know what to do. Drawing in a calming breath I approached it and carefully cut the ropes upon its wrists before removing the pacifier. The bracelets were next then the diapers so obviously saturated with human urine. I removed everything until that doll was completely naked. Then I carried it into the bathroom and spent hours bathing, scrubbing and cleaning it. Unlike before though every touch made it shudder, wince or whimper. I tried to be gentler, tried to lighten my touch but still those painful sounds elicited forth. They continued for what seemed like hours before falling abruptly blessedly silent. Once the doll was thoroughly bathed I dried it off then carried it into my bedroom. Next I placed it gently on the bed and began to work massage oil into every taut muscle careful to avoid the worst of the damage in the process. Soon stiff tightly knotted, tense muscle began to ease beneath my fingertips and as I painstakingly worked on each and every inch of skin tears began to well up in my eyes. Soon I began to speak soothingly, but the doll remained utterly silent.

The months that followed were some of the hardest I have ever had to face as that doll baby grew more animated, more alive than ever before. As each new day came, life would slowly seep back in followed by unimaginable pain. The once silent doll baby would sometimes scream and cry for hours at a time as it would regain more feeling, more of its senses. I soon began to spend as much time with my father’s toy as he had when he was alive, but instead of tea parties and dress up I would hold him so close, rock him, talk to him, whisper words of encouragement in his ears, tell him how proud of him I was…

It took years, years to bring that toy to life, years to teach it independence, build its strength and help it develop. It took years to undo all the damage my father had done to his pretty toy, but somehow I did it, _we_ did it _**together**_.

* * * *

As I enter the house now I’m greeted by two dogs both rather large. Once they greet me properly they disappear from the room. I smile as I know just where they went. I shout a greeting, “I’m back!” and hear sudden giggles filter in from the living room one set of giggles a child’s, a female’s and the other deeper, huskier purely male and my insides turn to mush. Once I have dinner started I approach the living room and the sight that greets me brings overwhelming joy to me. There in the midst of two overly playful dogs are two people I love with all my heart. They’re wrestling. The dogs apparently have the advantage, either that or their present competition are pushovers. He laughs again and I watch that beautiful face that dad used to paint brighten, those once deadened eyes now alive and sparkling, full of such life, his lush mouth again releasing playful giggles, hands a virtual flurry as he wrestles with the dogs. Suddenly they all collapse to the floor. The two humans settle one holding the other in his arms while two dogs hunker down on either side of them protectively. As those eyes search and find me my breath hitches, tears fall unbidden down my cheeks and a bright smile finds my lips as the once stoic face of dad’s doll baby splits into a large shit eating grin. He’s happy now and it shows. He _glows_ with it.

As a now strong tanned hand lifts into the air and waves me over I quickly join them on the floor cuddling in against him, drawing her in between our now joined arms, and feel a gentle soft kiss press to my forehead as that husky voice lined in such love fondly greets, “Welcome home Sammy.”

I lean over and press a kiss to his soft warm lips as I answer, “I’m glad to finally be home, Dean,” and those arms, arms that once were moved by another’s hands, placed the way that person wanted them, wrap tightly around drawing me close. The once rigid body presses in against me so warm, so muscular, so _inviting_ and I draw in his perfect, unique scent. As he settles I place my head upon his chest and press my ear firmly over his heart before drawing our daughter in close. I smile broadly as I hear that calm steady heartbeat telling me, reassuring me that he’s so very much **ALIVE**. Settling more comfortably my smile grows tender, full of fondness, as I remind myself again how dad’s once broken toy was brought magically to life by a simple thing, a simple four letter word spelled:

L – O – V – E

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This particular story is far darker and far more disturbing than what I usually write. If you are familiar with my writings then you’re probably wondering where the hell this story even came from. Here’s the explanation: some time ago while watching NCIS they advertised “Criminal Minds”. In the advertisement they showed a woman sitting at a table surrounded by a bunch of dolls. It was creepy. I was later informed that those dolls weren’t objects but people and that the episode itself was very disturbing. I’ve since tried to forget that creepy ad, but a story darker and more disturbing than I usually write emerged as a result, so here is what that crazy ad triggered. Additionally I can also attest to the fact that a disturbing scene with Jared Padalecki in “House of Wax” is also somewhat at fault for stirring this crazy fic into reality.


End file.
